


I Was Born for This

by KingFarbauti



Series: But What is A King to A God? [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Gen, Kings AU, minecraft au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingFarbauti/pseuds/KingFarbauti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Five confront the Mad King, in the aftermath of the last great battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was Born for This

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by 'I Was Born for This' from the Journey soundtrack.

The walk through the trashed and tarnished throne room was eerily silent; befitting of a tomb. It only made the corpses littered throughout the crumbling hall feel more at home. Some of their bodies had fallen peaceful; tranquil expressions of a pleasant rest sitting softly upon their faces. Others had been gripped tight by the ungentle hands of death, expressions twisted into gaunt and ghastly soundless screams.

Five figures made their way deeper into the familiar hall, the blood of their enemies still steaming upon their shoulders, the sliding of rubble and rock beneath their boots serving as the only sound to break the stiff silence as rigor mortis set into the soldiers around them.

As they drew nearer to the throne, the sound of breathing joined the fray.

It was wrong.

Like the wind from the wings of the Ender Dragon, caught in a long and empty chamber. Like the howling of a terrible storm ripping up the roots of homes, and tossing them carelessly into the Northern Sea. The sound of all things better left forgotten; the raspings of Death itself.

Four of the five stopped just short, too afraid to draw any closer, for what sort of creature could ever make such a sound?

One steps forward: The First of the Great Men, The Creator, Descendant of The Ancients, and one of the Old Gods. A man of many names, none given so lightly.

“It didn’t have to be this way…” The First laments, with no false sympathy. The heavy bend of his brow, and the burden settled so deep into his old frame, it reeked of warmth, of love, and subsequent heartache. Like a father unto his children, The First gazed up at the figure upon the throne with hooded, quiet eyes.

And the figure laughed.

It was a gurgling, bubbled sound. Slick with blood, and the fluid in his lungs that made air such a luxury in the passing moments. Like the Dragon guarding its hoard, his body clamored to preserve itself.

“Oh, yes it did.” Despite the paling of his skin, despite the telling wheeze beneath his voice, _despite_ —he carried his well-earned pride unto Death’s maw. “It was _always_ going to end like this, _Geoffrey_.”

The First recoils at the name, as if struck. The figure is pleased to see the reaction his words have wrought, and it earns a sound that might be laughter. It rings throughout the empty hall like the munificent shattering of a thousand Ender Eyes, and it makes the five shift uncomfortably, all of their nerves frayed by the razor sharp sound.

“You call a man _mad_ enough, and he grows to fit the shape.” The figure continued, pausing at great lengths to breathe. “You cannot call someone a monster, and then grow to condemn the creature that _you_ create, Geoffrey~. _You made me what I am_ \--”

His barbed words were cut short by the outraged cry from The First, “Do not pin your actions on me, Ryan! _You_ chose to usurp the throne! _You_ chose to burn villages, to slaughter, to torture! _You_ chose to involve yourself with magic no man should ever touch! Forbidden magic!!”

Ryan watched The First’s lecture with such a calm stare, the others briefly began to wonder if the madman had died from his injuries; the arrows sticking out from his shoulder blades like hellish, unnatural wings; the many lacerations upon his person; the broken spear still nestled comfortably between his fifth and sixth rib, just barely too low to immediately end him.

Still, he made a sound that either was a cough, or another attempt at laughter, and their ease was robbed from them. More eager hands grabbed the hilts of swords in wary, many angry eyes staring him down from the base of the stairs, daring Ryan to attempt standing.

“Aye, I don’t suppose you did.” Ryan sighs, blood bubbles collecting at the corners of his mouth. “Still, you _all_ chose to call me ‘mad’ afore I ever thought to do any of that… afore I was ever even King. Your words, _claimed in **jest**_ ,” he spat, upper lip curled in a silent snarl as he grew angry, “they painted _such_ a pretty picture… how could I refuse?”

The blue of his eyes is unnatural, they collectively think. It makes a terrible contrast to the blood spilling out of his body, and they nearly seem to gleam out from the dim ruins like some vicious sapphire buried deep beneath the earth, greedy to be free.

“I was given the crown fairly, and fairly it was taken away. When Michael usurped Ray, you turned a blind eye, _you played favorites_ as you always do.” The bitterness had returned, and weak hands clenched around the arms of the throne until knuckles were bone white.

“Your Heirs can treat each other, and those around them, however they’d like… but no one can raise a hand against them. It was a tired game, and I grew bored of playing.”

Geoff is scalded by Ryan’s words, and The First makes a sound like the encroaching thunder, rolling across the Western Mountains. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, and boldly he steps forward to face a greater foe. With one foot upon the bottom stair, the four behind him draw in a nervous breath together, for it is far too close for any of their liking.

The Mad King has a long reach, and those foolish enough to step within it seldom survive to boast.

“I took you all in, as _equals_ \--” He begins, well meaning, but Ryan is hearing none of it.

“And yet, here we are.” Ryan opens wide his arms, making some broad gesture to the hall in shambles around them, to the many corpses beginning to stink of rot.

“Michael was a shit King,” Ryan sneered, earning a vicious snarl from the wildling. “I did the kingdom a favor. He would have driven this world into war, and into ruin, if given the chance. A boy born a fighter can only _be_ a fighter.”

The conversation had carried for far longer than any of them would have liked; stalling with pretty speeches and fancy words was one of Ryan’s notorious traps. But there was no grander scheme here, only spite and jealousy. Death grew impatient, and Ryan’s strength began to wane.

“Tell yourself what you will, Geoffrey, but I see you for what you are.” The deep, gravel of his dying voice only made his words all the more sinister. “For all your petty and blinkered sense of righteousness, I see you. You may kill me a man, this day, but I will return a God; I will rip this world cracked and broken open, I will leave it by sinews and cheap thread, and it will be _beautiful_.”

“You think yourself a God!?” Geoff’s First-Born squawked, his foolhardy temperament getting the better of his sense of reason, forgetting him to keep quiet. “You really are Mad! To think the likes of _you_ could ever become a _God_ …”

Ryan only laughed, with a sour, blackened humor at what was largely meant to be an insult to him. There was a blind and pure fear breeding within the cage of Geoff’s ribs at the sound, and the terror was bright on his face. The cruel blues of Ryan’s eyes were now settled on Gavin; the Fool had the attention of the Mad King, and Geoff quietly considered praying to his own kin.

“There you go again with that word… I do not think you know what it means~.” Ryan almost purred, and it made their stomachs churn. “Call me what you will, and I will be what I will be… name me a Monster, and I shall grow the claws and teeth to tear you asunder; name me Mad, and I shall act thus; name me a Devil, and I shall sprout horns, and pluck your souls from betwixt the crooks of your hearts.”

Their five faces held varying forms of terror in their own right, and it all gave Ryan such a plain, and naked glee. The grin on his face was wide, red like the snout of a wolf, with all of his neatly teeth stained by his own fleeing life.

It might have gone on for hours, that threatening and unsettling exchange, but Death had waited far longer than was promised. There were no favorites in Dying.

With a great shudder, the last of the temple’s resolve gave way. Weakened structures began to collapse further as the building folded more in on itself. Great chunks of smooth stone and stone brick began to rain down upon them, and it only took an effortless flick of The First’s hand for a protective barrier to form around the five of them. Rubble bounced off an invisible dome like rocks skipping across the surface of a lake.

Ryan was granted no such mercy, and as the ceiling above him caved in, all he did was laugh; the sound high and terrible, too loud and hysteric, deafening bursts of grim humor that rang out clear above the tremoring building. It stopped far too quickly as a pile of debris formed upon the throne, burying it.

They waited like that until the cave-in stopped, and the throne room found itself at rest once more. As smoke cleared, and a silence settled once more, The Second looked to The First with sympathy; there was a kindness in him that not even Ryan’s darkness could touch. “Should we dig him out…? And bury him?”

Geoff refused to look away from where the throne had once been, his sorrowful eyes drawn to the puddle of red slowly crawling out from beneath the rubble to greet his boots. “No.” His voice was much quieter, now. Pebbles skittering down distant piles of debris nearly drowned it out. “He wanted the throne so damn much, let him rot on it.”

And so they did.


End file.
